Envy
by AlessNox
Summary: Sherlock and John are finally together, but not everyone is happy with the situation, and some will go to great lengths to pull them apart. My first attempt at a DARK Sherlock story inspired by Othello. JOHNLOCK WARNING: Major Character Death. SQUICK warning: Blood.
1. Chapter 1

"So..." John said reaching his hand out to touch Sherlock's cheek, "You mean that the reason that you left, the reason that you faked your death and let everyone think that you were a fake was to protect me?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, his eyes fixed on John's.

"That for all this time you've been working to defeat Moriarty's organization so that I would be safe?"

"Yes."

"And that you always planned ... always wanted ... for us to be together again?"

"Yes."

"Then what do you want now? For us to continue working together? For us to live together? For us to be friends? to become lovers ...what?

"Yes."

"Yes to what part?"

"All of it. John, all that I've thought about for years and years is you. You are all that I've wanted, all that I've worked for. Please, please John, stay with me forever."

John caressed Sherlock's cheek again and Sherlock placed his hand over John's. Then John leaned forward and hugged Sherlock who closed his eyes holding him tight, his eyes close to tears.

John pulled away, looked up into Sherlock's watery eyes, and smiled. "Then that's what we'll do," he said, "stay together, forever."

The smile on Sherlock's face took longer to come but it seemed to blossom out of his soul, pulling its way up through his chest and out with a laugh of pure joy.

Before the week was out, they were moved back into 221B Baker Street with their names proudly emblazoned on the door. Papers signed and witnessed, joined before God and Man, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, a love that would last forever.

{ } 3 3 3 { }

In a darkened bar not far from Scotland yard, Anderson and Donovan sat. Anderson had his hand around the neck of a beer bottle, while Donovan rolled red wine around her glass.

"Can you believe it?" Anderson said, " Sherlock bloody Holmes comes back from the dead proving that there was a Moriarty, and now we get pushed back down to the bottom again. I think I'll puke if I have to work with that psycho another time. Who _wouldn't_ think that he kidnapped those kids? Bloody creepy he is. He always has been. I have no idea how John Watson can stand to sleep with that freak."

"Yeah, he loves the freak he does."

"Crazy! That Watson fella is as cracked as he is."

"Don't say that! He just... he just has a big heart." Donovan said pulling her glass closer and staring into the depths of red, "Sherlock hurt him when he died, when he _pretended_ to die."

"Oh yeah, I forgot. You like the guy," Anderson said with a sneer on his lips. "When he was in the hospital you went everyday to help him, and then you visited him at his flat."

"He was alone. He was heartbroken. He needed comfort."

"And you gave it to him didn't you Sally. What's he like in bed? I bet he's considerate and gentle. Lets you orgasm first."

"Shut up."

"Hmph," Anderson said, "so you've fallen for John Watson. I'm sorry for you. You know that he and Sherlock are joined at the hip. He'll never look at you again."

Sally turned her face away trying to hide a tear. Anderson took a swig of beer and laughed. "We're fucked, the both of us," he said, "As long as Sherlock's around I'm never getting any higher up in Scotland Yard, and John Watson won't know that you're alive. Shame he didn't really die. Crazy freak can't be killed. Wish that he really did suicide."

"John would never let him," Donovan said pulling a pack of tissues out of her purse to wipe her eyes, "John loves him. He'll make sure the freak lives forever."

"Then, maybe we could get rid of John," Anderson said looking at her with a glint in his eye.

"You are not actually talking to me about harming harm John are you?" Donovan asked her teeth bared in anger.

"No, " Anderson said, "but if we broke them up. If ... say... John were found to be unfaithful to Sherlock."

"John would never cheat on Sherlock!"

"But does Sherlock know that? You and I know what his mind is like. Sneaky. If he thought that John was cheating on him, then maybe he'd break up with him. Alone he's a self-destructive psycho nutcase. Before the year is out he'd OD on cocaine, or kill someone, or just generally screw up his reputation enough so that no one at Scotland Yard would listen to a word he said."

"John would know that he hadn't cheated. John would deny it."

"That's the beauty of it all," Anderson said, " The more he protests his innocence the more convinced the freak will be that he's always been lying to him. If the evidence is there, Sherlock Holmes will jump to his own conclusions."

"That is entirely wicked," Donovan said taking another sip of wine, "You have the evilest mind. Sometimes I wonder if_ you_ have sociopathic tendencies."

"But it could work, and if we do it, we'll show that we are smart enough to fool the great Sherlock Holmes."

"We?"

"You're in aren't you? Or does it turn you on to think of them snogging after every case, of your John begging that psycho _'more, more. harder! harder!_' "

"That's enough!" Sally yelled rising half out of her chair, "Shut your damn mouth!" She looked around noticing that people were beginning to stare, then she sank back down into her seat.

Anderson laughed upending the last of the bottle into his mouth. "Waiter!" he called, "another round!"

Sally pulled her purse higher on her shoulder, placed her hand on the table and stood next to her chair, "What makes you think that I'm going to stay here with you another minute?" she said.

"Because I know you, Sally." Anderson said his eyes growing dark as he leered up at her, "and I know what you really want in that dark and twisted heart of yours. You couldn't get handsome Sherlock Holmes to sleep with you, so you slept with me and imagined that I was him. Then gentle John Watson steals your heart, but he's been taken away from you by that very same Sherlock Holmes. You hate him as much as I do, and so you'll sit here while I order another round, and we will drink together toasting his downfall. Then I'll go back to your flat and we'll shag. I'll even let you call me _John_, or _Sherlock_ if you like. It will be like old times."

Sally lowered herself slowly into her chair shaking with anger and frustration. "I hate you!" she said.

"But we're on for your place tonight, right?"

Sally tossed back the last of her wine and glared at Anderson. Then she sighed and looked away. "Yes, my place," she whispered. Anderson's eyes traveled up and down her body and he smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

John rushed forward crashing against the side of the van and causing it to rock a little. Sherlock came close behind. The two men that they were chasing jumped into a waiting car which sped off.

"Shoot the tire!" Sherlock said as John raised his pistol. John aimed and shot just nicking the edge of the wheel as the car weaved back and forth down the street. He pulled the trigger again, but nothing came out.

"I'm out of bullets, Sherlock," John said.

"Never mind, they're gone now," Sherlock replied as he pulled out his phone to text the license number to Lestrade, "Let's get out of here."

They walked slowly back to the crime scene arriving just as the team from Scotland Yard was starting their investigation. In the middle of a mostly empty car lot, a man lay dead. Broken like the chunks of asphalt that Sherlock and John stepped over as they approached. Blood pooled next to the victim's head where he had been beaten with a metal pipe.

Sherlock picked up the pace, striding on his long legs straight toward Lestrade who stared down at the body. John fell behind slowing to a walk, unable to keep up with Sherlock's long legs and boundless energy.

Sally Donovan crossed in front of John pulling a roll of crime tape and separating him from Sherlock's retreating back. John stopped. He reached out his hand to lift the tape and Sally pulled it tighter as she attached it to a metal post. John waited, watching as Sally walked back past him toward the waiting car.

"Can you give me a hand, John?" Sally asked while bending over to remove a sand bag from the open boot of the patrol car. Her skirt rode up her hip suggestively as she leaned over. She stood holding the bag in both hands and stared longingly into John's eyes.

"Sure, I'll help," John said picking up two more bags and following her back to the metal pole. He watched as she bent over to lay the bag down on the base. A flash of a garter revealed as she pushed the bag closer to the pole. Red. John dropped the other two bags nearby squatting down to adjust them so that the pole was securely weighted. He rose to his feet to find her standing very close to him. He took a step back only to be stopped by her hand on his forearm. He glared at her hand turning back to look at her face as she spoke.

"John," Sally said, "I've been wondering. How are you feeling? It's been so long since we've talked and I wondered if you were alright?"

John reached up taking Sally's hand and removing it from his arm. Her fingers gripped his hand, "I was worried," she said, "Is he treating you alright?"

"You mean Sherlock, my husband?" John said as he took his other hand and pried her fingers away from his. "Yes, I am fine. In fact I'm very happy, deliriously happy."

A frown crossed Sally's face for a moment, but she quickly converted it into a smile. "I'm glad," she said, "I only want you to be happy."

Sally glanced over her shoulder noticing that Sherlock was coming back toward John. "Well, thanks for helping me," she said and leaned over as if to kiss him on the cheek, but at the last minute she turned his head and kissed him square on the mouth. John stood surprised as her tongue caressed the inside of his cheek. Then he pulled back his head breaking the kiss. Sally winked at him and walked back toward the patrol car just as Sherlock approached.

"What was that about?" Sherlock asked turning to look at Sally's retreating back.

"Oh nothing," John said, "She was just saying thank you."

"I've never seen her thank any one that way before," Sherlock said narrowing his eyes as he stared across the distance to where Sally stood. She was deep in conversation with Anderson. He turned back to John.

"Well anyway, I need you to give me a time of death on this body."

"We know the time of death, Sherlock, it was twenty minutes ago." John said, "We saw the murderers leaving the scene."

"I know John, but Lestrade wants a ... professional opinion." Sherlock said pouting, affronted that his estimate was not considered as professional as John's.

"Alright then," John said smiling, "Let's go," The two of them turned and walked toward the body.

"I told you that it wouldn't be as easy as flashing a bit of leg. John Watson is a man of principles." Anderson whispered to Donovan as they glanced at Sherlock and John walking away together.

"Well, I got in the kiss. That's sure to be a conversation starter," she said.

"Yes, but we don't want to be too obvious. If he finds out what we are doing this isn't going to work."

"Relax," Sally said her eyes straying across the yard to watch them, "I'm just having a bit of fun. Maybe I should cry next time, act rejected."

"Please!" Anderson sneered, "you're not that good of an actress."

"What about all of those times that you thought I was having an orgasm? I fooled you then." she said smirking as his face fell. "You just wait. It may not happen here, but before the night is out there will be a fight. Sherlock is like a hound after a scent. He won't leave this alone until John tells him the whole story."

"What makes you think that he hasn't already told him?" Anderson asked.

"Just wait," she said and smiled.

Later in Baker street John collapsed down in his chair. The exertion of the day's run was finally catching up to him. Sherlock sat across from him, staring at John's face over his clasped hands.

"I suppose that you want me to make some tea now." John said closing his eyes, "Give me a minute, I'm wacked."

"John," Sherlock said.

John opened one eye to stare at Sherlock. Then he sat up straight in his chair. "What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"Why do you think that anything is wrong?" Sherlock asked.

John tilted his head and glared at Sherlock, "because you only say my name THAT way when you are really upset with me. So tell me, what have I done now?"

"Nothing, I just...Why did Sally Donovan kiss you?"

"I told you Sherlock, she was saying thank you."

"But, the way she kissed you, the way you kissed her. You bent your head back at just the right angle. It was as if...as if it was familiar. As if you had kissed her before. Have you kissed Sally Donovan before?"

John leaned forward and raised his hand brushing his short blond hair away from his forehead. Sherlock followed him closely with his eyes.

"It was a long time ago," John said "back when I thought that you were dead. I saw a man robbing a bank and tried to bring him down. I was stupid, reckless. He shot me and I was in the hospital for a long while."

"You never told me, John." Sherlock said, then he raised his head sharply and inhaled a breath, "The new scar. That's where it came from."

"I haven't really talked much about what it was like when you were away," John said nervously, "mostly because I was so unhappy, and ...I'm not proud of what I did then. One day I'll tell you all of it."

"Just tell me about Sally Donovan."

"She came to the hospital. Helped me do things at home when my arm wouldn't work right. One day, I was really depressed and she came by to visit. It was a one time thing. We never spoke of it again."

"You slept with Sally Donovan?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John said glancing down at the floor before looking up at Sherlock's horror stricken face.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." John said, "I never did it again. I wouldn't. I couldn't. Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Sherlock frowned, "I slept with you,"

"Yes?"

"And you slept with Donovan."

"Yes."

"And Donovan slept with Anderson."

"Yes, so?"

"That means that indirectly, I slept with Anderson. That's disgusting."

John stared at Sherlock and a small smile crossed his face. He started to laugh and Sherlock joined him filling the room with the sounds of their laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

John was just finishing a sandwich in the cafe when his phone rang.

"Hello Sherlock," he said without even looking at the screen.

"John, where are you?"

"Having lunch."

"Where?"

"Sherlock, why are you always so obsessed about where I am at every single moment. It isn't like Moriarty is around to kidnap me any more. You don't have to worry."

"I'm not worrying."

"Yes you are." John said, a laugh in his voice, "what's wrong?"

"I miss you," Sherlock said, "When will you be home?"

"It may be a while," John said and then he lowered his voice, "I'm going to meet...you know, that man who specializes in weapons. I ran out last night of ... Don't you remember?"

"Of course I remember, John. Are you sure that you will be safe."

"He's not a terrorist, Sherlock, just a collector. Their's no danger at all, so stop worrying, and don't mope around waiting for me. I'll be back late. He usually keeps his collectibles some distance from his shop."

"Are you sure that you don't want me to come with you, John."

"No Sherlock, I'll be fine. Oh God you're planning on following me aren't you? I can hear it in your voice. You, just stop it! I'll be home later, and we can go out for a late dinner together. Won't that be nice."

"Don't want dinner, I just want you," Sherlock said and John smiled.

"I love you too, Sherlock. See you this evening, I've got to go. Good bye."

John stood and walked through the glass door out of the shop. After he was gone, Anderson stepped out of the shadows. He pulled a pen out of his pocket. The initials JHW were clearly visible on the front. He placed the pen on the table.

"Pardon me?" Anderson called, "Do you mind clearing this table, I was supposed to wait for someone and I'd like to sit near the window."

The woman sighed as if she did mind, but she came over anyway and started to wipe the table with a cloth. "This your pen?" she asked.

"No," Anderson said, "Oh it must belong to that blond bloke that was here. You remember him don't you? Short blond hair, black coat."

"Yeah, he was sitting her. Had a sandwich."

"I just saw him leave. He met some other bloke. They looked pretty chummy. He kissed him just outside that door. Modern times. Men kissing in public. Not that I'm against gays or anything, it's just... you don't expect to see people doing it in public, if you know what I mean. "

"Yeah, I guess."

"This pen looks expensive. You better hold it unless he comes back." Anderson handed the pen to the waitress who stared out of the window. Anderson's phone rang and he answered it.

"Hello," he said, "You can't? Alright." He held the phone to his chest. "Never mind about the table, he canceled," Anderson said and walked out of the cafe. Outside, he picked up the phone. "It's done Sally," he said. "I better get out of here before The Coat arrives."

Ten minutes later Sherlock Holmes entered the cafe and looked around perusing each table for John's face.

"Hello," He called to the tousel-haired waitress, "I was looking for a friend. He would have been here about twenty minutes ago, this high, blond hair, black coat."

"Oh!" the woman said, "that bloke that sat over there. He had a sandwich. Yeah, I remember him. He's gone."

"Obviously," Sherlock said, "Did you by any chance see which way he went?"

"No, I wasn't watching," she said, "All I know is that he rushed out to meet some bloke and they were snogging like crazy right outside the front door."

"Are you sure that we are talking about the same man? Blue eyes, jeans, red plaid shirt?"

"Yeah, that was him. Do you know him? Maybe you can return his pen," She said reaching under the counter for the pen which she handed to Sherlock. He ran his right forefinger across the engraving.

The sound of plates crashing to the floor distracted the waitress who rushed back into the kitchen. Sherlock clasped the pen in his hand and then turned dramatically rushing out of the cafe in search of John.

That evening John entered the flat to see Sherlock lying on the couch rolling the pen over and over in his hands.

"I'm back Sherlock," John said, "and I'm starved. I don't care if you aren't hungry you can sit and watch me eat. How about Angelos? It's been months since I've had his manicotti."

Sherlock glanced up at him, but said nothing.

"Come on, Sherlock, get a move on..."

"Where were you?" Sherlock asked.

John halted in the middle of the room and looked at Sherlock. "You know where I was, Sherlock. Getting more bullets for my gun. We ended up in a warehouse south of Ewell. It took ages, that guy is seriously paranoid. What's gotten up your back, you seem really upset."

"Do you have the bullets?" Sherlock asked looking pointedly at John.

John dug into his coat and pulled out a paper sac. He opened it and placed four cartridges of bullets onto the desk.

Then he put his hand on his hips and glared at Sherlock. "What's all this about?"

"This man who you buy guns from, is he handsome?"

John's mouth fell open and he furrowed his brow. "What does that have to do with anything, Sherlock? Is that my pen that you are holding?"

"Yes," Sherlock said sitting up, "I found it at the cafe where you had lunch. A sandwich was it..."

"You followed me to that cafe? Sherlock! I told you that you didn't have to follow me everywhere."

"Why not? Are you meeting people that you'd rather I didn't know about?"

"You know what?" John said frustrated, "I don't care. I don't know what's got you wound up, but I'm starving. I'm going to Angelos, alone if I have to ... are you coming?"

Sherlock lay back down on the couch and turned his head away. John stood for a minute staring at him, and then turned and walked down the stairs and out of the apartment slamming the door as he left.

Two days later Anderson and Donovan watched Sherlock Holmes stride into the museum where a priceless artifact had just been stolen in broad daylight. He pulled out his magnifier and examined the pedestal where the artifact had stood. John Watson entered five minutes later. He walked up behind Sherlock who glanced at him and walked past him without saying a word. John stared at his back, worry and pain plain on his face.

That night Anderson and Donovan shared a bottle of champagne in Donovan's apartment.

"It's working," Anderson said.

"Yes, but it's just suspicion."

"Suspicion is the first step," Anderson said, "What we need is someone for him to be having an affair with."

"We can find someone he interacts with. A guy who works at a shop?"

"Some shopboy isn't going to be any competition for Sherlock Holmes. It has to be someone that Sherlock respects, or at least fears. Someone that he could believe that John might fall for."

"Not many people fit that category. Lestrade?"

"The last thing we want to do is get our boss involved in this. He might figure out what we're doing, and I wouldn't want to be demoted to traffic cop would you?"

"Of course not. But there's no one. No one that I can think of."

"Keep your eyes open. Something will come up."

They watched John closely for the rest of the month. Sherlock and John were talking again, but they weren't communicating. Every interaction of theirs felt strained. One afternoon on a routine investigation in an empty flat containing five severed fingers each from different people, Sherlock walked out of the room as soon as John Watson came in. John strode out after him grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him around.

"Sherlock!" he said, "I've had just about enough of this. When are you going to tell me what's going on?"

Sherlock looked down at John. His face a mass of indifference. "John, you're making a scene. People are staring."

"I don't give a fuck how many people are staring! Let the whole of Scotland Yard stare, you are not leaving here until you tell me what it is that you think I've done. I'm tired of the cold stares, I'm tired of you staying out all night and only saying the barest minimal amount of words to me, as if I'm some stranger that you met on the street. I'm tired of you pulling away from me when I try to touch you. You are going to stay here and tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock dropped his eyes to the ground, and then looked up at John's face. Then he turned and walked out of the building. John ran after him and spun him around swinging his arm and punching Sherlock Holmes in the face.

Lestrade ran forward and grabbed John's arm. Sherlock picked himself up off of the curb and then walked away. John collapsed in on himself squatting down on the ground, his face in his hands visibly shattered. Lestrade bent down beside him, one hand on his shoulder.

Anderson leaned against the brick wall of the building a big grin upon his face. Donovan was frowning. "I didn't mean for John to be hurt like this," she said.

"Of course he's going to be hurt," Anderson said, "You knew this wouldn't be easy. You can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs."

"But John?"

"Don't worry, in a few weeks you can offer to let him kip in your flat. This is going better than I expected."

Suddenly, a black car came down the street. It stopped in front of John. The windows were darkened, but one rolled down and a man looked out. "Who is that?" Anderson asked.

Donovan peered at the man in the yellow tie and expensive suit. "That's Sherlock Holmes' brother, she said, "Lestrade mentioned him once. Works in the government, I don't know what he does."

Lestrade helped John to his feet, as the man opened his car door. John walked over and climbed into the car.

A slow smile crossed Anderson's face. "I think that we've found John's lover," he said.


	4. Chapter 4

Anderson flashed his badge at the young man who looked back at him with eyes close to tears.

"I didn't mean to steal it. I'll return it. Please don't take me in. My father, he'll never forgive me. I'll lose my job."

"You should lose your job. Stealing priceless instruments that you are supposed to be guarding. What do you do? Sell them and replace them with imitations?"

"Never!" The thin man said straightening up a bit, "I would never harm them. These are masterpieces. All of them. I only borrow them to play. I work here because I love instruments. I am not allowed to touch them normally, so I borrow them to play at home. I always return them in the same condition that I received them in. Better condition, actually, because I clean and polish them. If you turn me in, I will never be allowed near one again. For mercy's sake, please reconsider. Is there any way that you can NOT tell my employer? Please. I'll do anything."

"Anything?" Anderson asked a smile on his face.

{} {} {}

A black car arrived in front of the Diogenes club and John Watson climbed out. He put his hand into his pockets, and then climbed the familiar steps to enter the building. Across the street, the thin musician sent a text. A reply came back almost immediately.

MAKE THE CALL.

The thin man walked down to the corner and entered a pay phone. A ring and then...

"Hello, this is Sherlock Holmes. How did you get my private number?"

"There's something you need to see, at the Diogenes club."

"Who's this?"

"A concerned citizen. It's just...you need to see this. Come now."

"Who's talking? What do you want?"

The man hung up, stepped out of the booth, and walked away.

Not long afterward, Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the cab one block away from the entrance to the Diogenes club. He turned up his collar and walked along the sidewalk to stand almost in the same place where the thin man had stood earlier. He looked up and down the street seeing nothing suspicious. The place looked like it had always looked, old, stuffy and pretentious like his brother.

A black car drove up to the door, and Sherlock stepped back into the shadow of a doorway in case his brother should come out and notice him spying. It was with great surprise that he saw Dr. John Watson standing in the doorway. The doorman bowed as he showed him out in the manner that he did for members and frequent guests. This wasn't John's first time here then. Why would John be at this club? The only logical reason is that he came to see Mycroft.

But why? He could be asking for help, needing money, perhaps. But their finances were doing well at the moment so that made no sense. He could be asking for advice. Their recent bout of fighting had greatly rattled John, but it was not like him to ask for advice from Sherlock's brother. Sarah, he might ask for advice from her, but not Mycroft. Mycroft was not the authority on getting along with Sherlock.

John opened the door and climbed into the waiting car which then sped away. The car had been sent to take him home. It had probably picked him up too. Since when did John spend time with Sherlock's brother Mycroft? Had they met this way before? Why was he here?

Sherlock wanted answers. He strode across the street and entered the club walking into the lounge where Mycroft liked to entertain. Mycroft turned to face him as he opened the door. He was standing and holding a glass of gin. Sherlock noticed an empty glass on a table beside a recently vacated chair.

"Sherlock. What a rare surprise," he said, "What brings you here at this time in the evening?"

"I could ask the same of you," Sherlock said, his mouth a hard line. Mycroft put down his glass and frowned at Sherlock in return.

"As you may remember, this is my club," Mycroft said, "I come here often. You, on the other hand, have crossed that threshold only three times, and on the last occasion you were escorted out forcibly for talking, if one can describe your bellowing insults at me across the room by so mild a term. Please tell me that you are not planning to be so tiresome as to repeat yourself? What do you want?"

"Why was John here?" Sherlock asked staring at Mycroft, his hands clasped into fists at his side.

Mycroft sighed, refilled his glass and then sat in one of the high-backed leather chairs that filled the room. "If you must know, Sherlock, I sent for him."

"Why?"

"To talk about you and your absurd behavior. You finally do something right by joining with Dr. Watson, and then you immediately set about destroying the relationship. What do you think that you are doing?"

"What do you think that you are doing calling my husband to meet privately with you? How often do you meet for drinks behind my back."

"Sherlock! Please refrain from accusations. I was only concerned for your welfare."

"You haven't answered my question."

"What question?"

"You try my patience. Do you often meet alone with my husband?"

"Define often."

"Mycroft!"

"Do not raise your voice with me, Sherlock, I do not wish to have you evicted a second time."

Sherlock took a big breath, but his shoulders were shaking. "How many times have you and he met to ...'discuss my welfare'?"

"Sherlock, sit down, have a drink, you're going to give yourself an ulcer."

Sherlock looked around the room with a critical eye, his glance ending by covering Mycroft from head to toe.

"That tie, it's your favorite. Joseph once said that you looked 'remarkably well' in it, and you blushed. The suit is new. Bought this month. Who do you need to impress? The gin. Dust on the bottle. A private collection, I see 1948. It must have been a special occasion to bring it out. Seems a bit much just to discuss my welfare."

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably in his chair while Sherlock walked around it watching him.

"John came in and sat in that chair. He slouched as he does when he is depressed. You sat in the chair that you are in now. Funny how it is tilted slightly to show your best side. You went and got the gin. You couldn't have stored that bottle here. The caretakers would have dusted it, so you brought it with you in anticipation of this meeting. This was no chance meeting. Either the two of you had arranged it, or you had anticipated it with enough warning to get the bottle out of your wine cellar this morning to bring here. What do you have to celebrate? Our breaking up?"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft said, "You're making a fool of yourself."

"So you planned to meet with John. Expected to share a glass or two of gin with him, and then do what?"

"Nothing. We just talked, about you. About how unreasonable you are. I see now that John was not exaggerating. You seem to be overcome with jealousy for the one man who has been ever loyal, ever faithful. Can you open your eyes for one moment and see the truth of the world around you instead of whatever it is that is passing in that head of yours?"

"Oh my eyes are opening. You have met with him before. Many more times than either of you have admitted to, and you look forward to such meetings. Prepare for them by dressing up and bringing sixty-year old bottles of gin. Not something that one normally does for simply meeting with the in-laws."

"Sherlock. Sit down and let's talk about this calmly."

"Admit it, you like John, don't you?"

"Of course I like John," Mycroft said, "Of all of your flatmates he was the most..."

"No! I mean you LIKE him, as if you'd like to have him, you want to sleep with him, if you haven't already."

"Sherlock! For shame. How dare you accuse your husband of that. Accusations without evidence are the lowest form of delusion. You should know better."

"You haven't denied that you have feelings for MY husband. Do you?"

"Sherlock. You are being childish." Mycroft said.

Sherlock turned and walked out of the room. Mycroft gave a big sigh and then pulled out his phone.

"John, Mycroft here, Sherlock was just at the club and I'm afraid that he left here in rather a huff. I just wanted to warn you that a storm is blowing your way. I am sorry..."

] {{ }} [

Sherlock ran up the steps of 221B to find John in his chair reading. He turned as Sherlock entered, but said nothing.

Sherlock walked around to stand in front of John. He had not even taken the time to remove his coat. John looked up at him in silence.

"You were with Mycroft," Sherlock said his voice low and steady.

"So, you've finally deigned to talk to me again. Well, good evening Sherlock. How was my day you ask? Oh, it was crappy. I've been so upset that my husband has been ignoring me that I haven't been able to sleep for three days. That is until I fell asleep at work today for the second time. Then I had to sit inside the director's office and beg to keep my Job. He gave me a two week suspension without pay telling me that I had better get my home life in order before I come back to work. I rushed out without my wallet, so I had the embarrassment of having to talk a restaurant owner out of calling the police on me while I begged Molly to come pay for my meal, and before I could get home to get the money to pay her back, Mycroft abducts me again to have a little talk about you, so really just what I need now is for you to come home and accuse me of something else. It would really put a cap on my day."

"You didn't tell me that you met with Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"How could I tell you, I just got home?"

"I mean before. You've met before."

"Of course I have, but you knew that Sherlock."

"No, I didn't. When? How long?"

"When did we start meeting? During the Irene Adler affair."

"That long ago?" Sherlock looked stricken. He slouched and turned away, "And what do you do in these meetings?"

"We talk, about you mostly, Sherlock...what's wrong." John rose from his seat and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's hand had risen to cover his face. John turned Sherlock toward him, but Sherlock turned his face away. His eyes clenched closed. John pried the hand away from Sherlock's mouth. He said, "Sherlock, tell me what you are thinking. Right now, what is worrying you?"

"You don't love me," Sherlock said, "You go out with other men. Do things with other men and you don't tell me. You let me think that I'm the only one that you care for, the only one ...but it's a lie."

"No, Sherlock, no. I'm right here, look at me. Look at me! I know you can read me. I told you about my day, am I lying to you now?"

Sherlock looked at John. His face was wrinkled with lines of concern. His collar, uneven pushed open a bit more on the right side from all of the times that he pushed the stethoscope off of his ear after listening to a patient's heart and lungs. A curry stain on his shirt from the restaurant, dried, so it was some time ago he ate, but he didn't have a chance to clean up. Waiting for Molly. A bit of yarn hanging out of his pocket. Molly gave him one of those knitted key chains that she had insisted on making as gifts. He had forgotten his at the lab three times hoping that she would get the hint that he didn't want it. Everything that he said was true. Sherlock looked back at John's face. The eyes that were searching his face for understanding. The eyes that were red from lack of sleep, that were beginning to fill with tears.

"Sherlock," John said, "you've always been able to read me, and I've always let you. I left myself open to you. Let you know everything about me, even embarrassing things. How could I get away with hiding anything when I live with the world's foremost consulting detective? I may not have told you everything that I have done, but I haven't hidden it from you either. Ask me and I'll tell you anything. Give you anything, because I love you. I love YOU, Sherlock Holmes, not your brother, or some random man on the street, but you. I have loved you one way or another since the first day we met at Barts, and I have never, never hidden this fact from you. Look into my eyes, and you will see yourself reflected there, because all that I see is you."

Sherlock looked into John's face, into his eyes, and then he pulled him into his arms and kissed him. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders deepening the kiss. They parted, and John leaned back to stare up into Sherlock's eyes, their faces serious as John dropped Sherlock's coat to the floor.

Sherlock knelt, and John fell on his knees in front of him, their heads at a more even height as they pressed their palms together. "I'm never sure," Sherlock said shakily, "even though I hear you say it, it's hard for me to believe that someone like you. That someone as good, and kind, and wonderful as you could ever love someone as screwed up as I am. I'm sorry that I doubted you. I was afraid. Afraid that you would leave me. I couldn't live with that. I can't live without you John. Truly, you are my life."

John smiled at Sherlock, "I love you, Sherlock. Never doubt it, because it will always be true, always. No matter how angry you make me."

Sherlock wrapped his arms loosely around John's waist and bent down to touch John's collarbone with his nose. The tip of it traced a line up the side of John's neck and along his cheek and his lips kissed the base of John's ear. Sherlock pulled John closer and then he whispered, "John, John, I don't have the words..."

John pushed him down to the carpet covering Sherlock's mouth with his, and neither of them spoke any words for hours.


	5. Chapter 5

"It's not working," Donovan said to Anderson at the next crime scene as she glared across at Sherlock and John who were smiling at each other across the body. Sherlock rose and crossed the room to talk to John who reached out to pick at his sleeve. The glances that they gave each other were hot enough to melt lead.

Lestrade walked over, "I'm glad that you two made up, but could you please tell me what you've figured out before you run off to have your afternoon shag."

Sherlock glared at him, but John turned away to hide a smile.

Anderson grunted, "Ug! I think I'm going to puke. We're going to have to do something. Let's meet tonight."

"Anderson!" Lestrade called, "can you please come back here and do your job? I need a sample of that blood from the wall, and a fingernail culture if you can fit that into your busy schedule. Donovan! don't you have work to do elsewhere?"

"Yes Inspector!" they said together before exchanging a glance and parting ways.

That evening in Donovan's apartment they sat half-dressed, a bottle of vodka on the table before them. "They're fuckin' inseparable," Donovan said pouring herself another glass. Did you see the way they were looking at each other. If they shag less than three times a day now, I'd be surprised.

"Did you hear the way Lestrade talked to me? Like I was an intern or something. 'Do your job!' It's Sherlock, I tell you. We've got to get him."

"But how?" Donovan asked falling back against the couch. "We've tried. John is just too open, too trustworthy. He's flawless, shining. Dirt won't stick to him."

"There ain't nobody that can't be pulled lower," Anderson said his voice slurring from the alcohol. "We've just been setting our sites too low. What is the biggest threat that Sherlock has ever faced?"

"That's easy," Donovan said, "Moriarty. But Moriarty is dead."

"What if he wasn't?" Anderson said.

"I don't understand."

"Moriarty stole those jewels and everyone knew it was him, and then the article came out, and everyone knew it wasn't him, and then Sherlock came back, and he was Moriarty again. You get it?"

"No."

"Moriarty is a sneaky, lying bastard. He could even fool Sherlock Holmes for a time. What if he really fooled him. What if he fooled him so well that Sherlock never suspected him. What if he was so good at fooling him that he married him."

"Are you saying that we should make him think that John is Moriarty?"

"Who else would be motivated enough and sneaky enough to fool him for so long?"

"John? Make him believe ...but how is it possible that John is Moriarty? John was with him during those cases. He couldn't have caused them."

"Moriarty always worked through others. He never got his hands dirty. If we could give enough evidence, enough clues, Sherlock might believe it. But the details would have to be specific. Details about the real Moriarty that could be followed up. We need facts. I don't know where we can get them from."

"I do." Donovan said, "Lestrade started a file, before Sherlock's death. Even when everyone believed that Moriarty was really Richard Brook, he kept accumulating evidence: Swiss bank account numbers, phone receipts, witness transcripts. He has quite a file hidden in his office."

"Then we should get it."

"It isn't so easy," she said, "I said that it was when Sherlock was dead. He wasn't doing it officially. Officially Sherlock was a fraud. It's his private file. He keeps it in the safe under his desk."

"Lestrade has a safe?"

"Yes. He uses it to keep evidence that he thinks might be stolen."

"That's not official policy."

"No, but he does it anyway."

"Then how do we get the file?" Anderson asked.

"Leave it to me," Donovan said nodding.

((( )))

Coming around the corner, DI Lestrade bumped into Donovan who was carrying files under her arm.

"Hey, Donovan. Watch where you're going," Lestrade said.

"Oh, uh, sorry," she replied nervously.

"Is something wrong, Donovan?"

"Uh no. Nothing's wrong, just...looking the other way."

"Well you might want to start looking where you are going if you wish to avoid hitting people in the future."

"Yes, uh, yes sir."

"And why are you wearing gloves? Are you cold?"

"Gloves," she said looking down at her hands. "Oh, my hands. They are dry. I read that if you put lotion on them and put them into gloves then they'd get softer."

"I see." Lestrade said, "well then. You can go now."

"Right," she said and rushed off past him in almost a run.

"I wonder what that was about?" he said before continuing on to his office.

Later, Anderson and Donovan poured over three files labeled, James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes and even one named Dr. John Watson.

"Look!" Donovan said, "Lestrade has the number and password of a swiss bank account holding four hundred thousand pounds!"

"Really, why haven't they frozen that account?"

"They have a watch on it. They want to see if anyone tries to claim the money."

"Too bad. I could use a few hundred thousand pounds."

"What, need a new yacht?"

"I wish," Anderson said with a sneer.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Donovan asked.

"Overlaps. Similarities that can be made to look incriminating," Anderson said.

"Did you know that Moriarty and Sherlock bought shoes from the same store once?"Donovan said holding up two slips of paper, "I have the receipts."

"I don't think that we can infer any links from the fact that they shopped in the same store. Did they do it on the same day?

"No, they were six months apart."

"What kind of junk does Lestrade put in these files?"

"He's a very methodical man. He doesn't think that anything is irrelevant. He'd rather have too many facts than too few."

"That's why Sherlock Holmes is always beating him to the punch, because he spends so much time wading through receipts and other unimportant junk. Come on, we need to find something soon. My wife gets home tomorrow morning."

Donovan's glance held knives. She picked up another file and began to read through it. "Wait a second. Look at this," Donovan said, "On the dates of the Carl Powers accident, John Watson had a summer job as a swimming pool attendant."

"So? Oh now I get it!" Anderson said, "Did he work anywhere near the pool where Powers died?"

"No, he wasn't even in London."

"But if he was?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you think that you could fake a badge? Something a pool attendant might have worn? I have a plan. And we're going to need a safety deposit box.

((( )))

John Watson walked down the street using long aggressive strides. He turned a corner and bumped into a white hair woman.

"Oh, pardon me, I didn't mean to bump into you."

"That's quite alright," she said, "but now that you are here, do you think that you can help me? I'm trying to read these numbers, but the type is too small. Do you think that you can read it for me?"

"Certainly," John picked up the slip of paper and looked at the small print. "This isn't a phone number."

"Actually," The woman said, "Could you please write it out for me a little larger? Here is my notepad."

"Uh, certainly," John said pulling out his pen and transcribing the numbers on it. "Can you read that?"

"Oh yes," she said, "Thank you. Thank you very much."

"You're welcome," John said before walking off a little more slowly.

The woman rushed around the corner to stand outside of a car. The window rolled down revealing Anderson. The woman handed the sheet to him.

"Here you go," she said.

"Thank you so much for your help," Anderson replied.

"Oh don't mention it dear. I'm happy to do anything I can to help Scotland yard." She smiled and walked away.

The following Monday, Sherlock Holmes rushed into Lestrade's office. Donovan picked up two coffees and walked in. She handed one to John who said 'thank you', and she raised one toward Sherlock who ignored her.

"Can I take your coat?" She asked and three pairs of eyes turned to stare at her. Sherlock looked down his nose at her as if she had just sprouted wings and a tail. Then John removed his coat.

"You can take my coat, thank you?" he said handing her his coat. Sherlock turned away and he and Lestrade went back to their conversation. Sally hung John's coat on the rack by the door slipping a small key into the pocket while no one was looking. Then she left closing the door quietly.

In 221B Baker Street the next morning Sherlock sat in his chair thinking. He looked up.

"Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked John who was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock could hear the sounds of water running. John must be taking a shower.

John's coat was sitting on his chair across from Sherlock. Sherlock stared at it for a minute willing it to fly toward him, but it stubbornly stayed where it was. He gave a big sigh and pushed himself forward to grab the sleeve of the coat before falling back into his chair pulling the coat along with him.

He riffled through the pockets pulling out the phone, a receipt for a coffee and a pastry, a piece of lint, and a small key.

"What is this key for?" Sherlock yelled at John.

"What? Sherlock, I'm in the shower," John said. Sherlock looked at the number on the key and slipped it into his own pocket.

That afternoon he walked into the vault of a central London bank and turned the key. The box contained a shoe box from the same store that he sometimes shopped at. He picked it up relocking the deposit box and nodded at the attendant as he left.

At home, he carefully opened the shoe box and examined its contents. There was a piece of note paper with a pair of numbers on it. Long numbers. It looked like a bank account number. Then their was an address book with some names and phone numbers. He recognized most of them as contacts of Moriarty. On the bottom of the stack was a picture of John Watson. The picture was faded and he was obviously much younger. He looked extremely cute, despite the bad photography. Sherlock looked more closely and noticed that it was a pool attendant's badge. A badge for the same pool where Carl Powers had died.

Sherlock's mouth fell open and the badge fell from his hand back into the box. A sneaking suspicion crossed his mind, and he didn't like it at all. He closed the box and walked across the room to stand beside the mantle. He looked around the room. There was John's chair, their was his medical journal, there was the plate with the crumbs of toast that he had made just this morning. It was a stupid thought, a traitorous thought. He had to shake it out of his head, but the box sat there. His eyes strayed over to it against his will. It implied something that was impossible. But was it really impossible?

Could it be true? Could John Watson, his husband John Watson, be Moriarty? Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable must be the truth. Sherlock turned and walked back across the room to the box. He opened the lid again.


	6. Chapter 6

John Watson walked into Inspector Lestrade's office.

"Hello Greg," he said, "what was so urgent?"

Lestrade shut the door and closed the drapes to give them privacy.

"Please have a seat," he said.

John sat down and then pushed his chair forward so that he was a bit closer to Greg's desk. He lowered his voice. "Tell me. What is it?"

"Did Sherlock break into my office and steal some files this week?" Lestrade asked.

John smiled, "steal files? He usually only does that when he's bored, and he hasn't been bored this week. No, not at all."

"John, seriously, did you see any files?"

John thought. "No. I won't say that he hasn't taken files before, because he has, but he doesn't usually hide them. He usually has them on his desk. There has been nothing. I don't think that he did it. Why?"

"Because someone broke into my safe and stole some of my private files, and there aren't that many people with access to my office. Heck, there aren't that many people who even know that I have a safe. Sherlock does, and I wouldn't put it past him to crack any of my codes so I had to ask."

"What files? What was stolen?" John asked.

"There was a file on Moriarty, a file on Sherlock, and a file on you."

"You keep a file on me?"

"The thing is, if Sherlock didn't take those files then the person who did is looking for information about the two of you. I think that you are in danger. In fact, I think that someone may have been targeting you for some time."

"Targeting me?" John said, "what do you mean?"

"Can you tell me what you and Sherlock have been fighting about?"

"Oh," John said, "little things. Where I've been, who I like. Sherlock is insecure. He gets jealous."

"Have you done anything to make him jealous?" Lestrade asked.

"Not that I know of," John said.

"I think that someone may have been trying to frame you. Mycroft Holmes called me the other day. He showed me CCTV footage of a man in a phone booth across from the Diogenes club. This man called Sherlock minutes before Sherlock stormed into the club and got into a fight with Mycroft about you. I've identified this man as a suspect in a case about some stolen musical instruments. I was about to call him in, but I wanted to see what you had to say first."

"This man called Sherlock? Why?"

"I think that he told Sherlock that you and Mycroft were having a _tête-à-tête_."

John frowned. "Why would this man want to get between Sherlock and me?"

"I don't think he did. I think that he's just a pawn, but someone got him to do it."

"My God," John said, "Sherlock accused me of snogging some man on the street when I went to...when I went shopping. He said that he followed me, and the waitress said that I went outside and snogged some bloke."

"Did you?"

"God no!" John said, "It's just some prank. Somebody must be jealous of Sherlock and they are trying to play tricks on him."

"John. This is serious." Lestrade said, "Sherlock may have become more stable since the two of you got together, but Sherlock is unpredictable where you are concerned. You're inside of him, under his skin. He thinks of you as part of himself, and you know how he treats himself."

"I'll keep this in mind. I'll tell Sherlock about the safe, so no worries," John said rising, "and can I take this man's number? Sherlock will want to know." John went to the door.

"John," Lestrade said laying a hand on John's arm, "be careful."

"I'm always careful," John said with a smile before opening the door and leaving.

%%%

The room was dim when John arrived at his flat. Only one lamp was on. John could see the outline of Sherlock sitting in his chair. He turned on the light.

"Sherlock, I was just at Lestrade's. Someone stole some files from him about you and Moriarty, and he gave me this number for the man who called you to tell you about my visit to Mycroft...Sherlock. Sherlock are you okay? You're awfully quiet."

Sherlock was staring at John. His face hard and stiff. When he spoke, his voice was strange, strained. "At the pool, I was expecting Moriarty and you walked out to face me. You were being honest with me weren't you? Your greatest fake out. Show me your real face, and then step aside and let someone else take the blame. Let me make my own deductions. After that I couldn't even imagine that you were him, not after you tried to save my life."

"Sherlock, what are you talking about? I don't understand you."

"1989. That summer, you had a part time job as a pool attendant. Do you deny it?"

"When?...well yes, I did work as a pool attendant once. I also sold tickets at a movie theatre. I was trying to raise money for university. What of it?"

"We were searching for someone from his Carl Power's class. Someone his age, an associate. I didn't think that it might have been someone older. Someone who could get access to my old flat without anyone noticing. Someone who would know about conditions like Eczema and how they are treated."

"Who was older? What is it? Did you find out something more about Moriarty?"

Sherlock gave a deep laugh that shook his chest but no smile reached his face. "Yes, I have found out more about Moriarty. The cabbie, he said that Moriarty was my biggest fan. You're my biggest fan, my blogger, my greatest admirer. Is that why you shot him? to stop him from talking to me?"

"Sherlock. You know why I shot the cabbie. He was going to make you take that pill. I don't like where this conversation is going. What exactly are you implying, Sherlock?"

"And the limp. Was that just a play for sympathy? To make you look normal, safe, like those jumpers you wear. Is any of this you, or is it all an act? I should have guessed. It didn't make any sense that Moriarty would show himself to me when just the day before had killed the old blind woman for simply describing his voice. 'Soft', she said, 'he sounded so soft'." Sherlock closed his eyes his shoulders were shaking "Soft."

"Sherlock," John said taking a step forward.

"You were always so concerned for the victims, chiding me for not caring." Sherlock laughed, "How could I be so blind? Hard and soft. Compassionate one moment and the next, you kill a man without remorse. Such a mixture of everything that I always wanted, as if you were made for me. Perhaps you were made. A fiction to enchant me, and you did. You've conquered me body and soul."

"Sherlock. Stop this!" John said walking across the room toward him and only stopping at the sight of his own Browning pointed at his chest.

"Stay away from me, John, or whatever your name is. How long have you known me? Did I meet you as a child. Did I forget you? I can't imagine ever forgetting meeting you. Who knew when I stood on that roof saying that I had researched you, that I discovered everything that I could to impress you, that I was describing what you had done to me."

"Sherlock, put down the gun."

"I loved you, John. I've never loved anyone as I've loved you, but you were playing me from the start."

"Sherlock enough of this! Put down that gun." John charged forward.

A single shot rang out, and John fell back onto the floor.

Sherlock rushed forward. He leaned over John's body. Blood was spilling out onto the carpet, a brighter red spreading outward, soaking into the darker red fibers. He placed his hand on the ground, on either side of John's hips. His right hand still holding the gun. "John! JOHN!" he cried.

John's mouth moved, but no words came out. When he did speak, his words were quiet, breathless, "Sherlock, I...I love you." He pinched his lips together and scowled in pain, then he breathed out, and spoke no more.

"JOHN!" Sherlock screamed.

"What's going on?" Mrs Hudson said climbing the steps and coming in through the open door, then she screamed. Sherlock looked up at her and then looked down at John. He tore the note out of John's hand and ran past Mrs Hudson and down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson watched him storm past, gun in his hand, and then looked down in shock at John's unmoving body.


	7. Chapter 7

The doorbell buzzed and buzzed again. Anderson moved through the living room toward the door. "I'm coming!" he cried, "hold your horses," but before he could reach the door, it burst open having been kicked in by the man on the other side. The man in the long coat.

Sherlock Holmes walked briskly across the floor and grabbed Anderson by the neck throwing him against the wall and pulling out his pistol to rest it on Anderson's forehead.

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"I...I... what do you mean? Why what?"

"Why did you try to convince me that John was cheating on me with my own brother?"

"I don't know what..."

"Don't bother to lie to me. I found the musician who stole the instruments. He confessed that he made the call because you promised him that he would go free if he did. So why?"

Anderson squirmed under Sherlock's grip. Then he laughed. "You wouldn't shoot me. You don't have the balls. Always striding in to my crime scenes, calling me names and insulting me. Of course I wanted you to suffer."

"But why John? Why did you accuse John."

"You should know, Sherlock, that when you attack someone you aim for their weak spot. He's your weak spot. If he goes down, you do too."

"Well, he's not my weak spot anymore. He's dead."

Anderson's mouth formed an O. "You didn't. You did! You finally flipped and killed someone. Fuckin' Sherlock Holmes. You killed a man!"

"No," Sherlock said taking three steps back. "I killed two." He pulled the trigger putting a bullet straight into Anderson's head. Anderson slid down the wall leaving a deep red stain on the wallpaper. "I should have aimed for the heart." Sherlock said looking down at him, "A brain as small as yours, I probably missed it."

Just then Anderson's phone buzzed. Sherlock bent down and picked it up. The text was from Sally Donovan.

**[Freak shot John. Maybe coming for us.]**

Sherlock texted back.

**[Where are you?]**

**[At Barts in the lab. Had to pick up a sample.]**

**[Stay where you are. I'm coming.]**

He texted back just as Donovan's wife strolled in from the kitchen. She cried out as she saw her husband on the floor. Sherlock left through the front door to the sound of her screams.

) 0000 (

Lestrade walked into Sherlock and John's apartment. The body had already been taken away in an ambulance, but the blood stain was clearly visible on the carpet. Lestrade glanced around the apartment with a frown on his face. "Issue a warrant for the arrest of Sherlock Holmes. We all know what he looks like. I want every available officer out on the street after him...NOW! before he hurts someone else."

Lestrade walked over to the desk. He looked at the shoe box, opening the lid and picking up the picture of John.

"Wait a second. This ID is faked. It's a very good fake though, by somebody experienced with ID's. Oh!" he sighed, "Sally, where is Sally Donovan?"

"She went to Barts to pick up the report on that blood sample," The officer said.

"Pull the car around. I want a full squad to head to Barts right now!"

He strode across the room and out of the door past the nurse who sat on the steps wrapping an orange blanket around Mrs Hudson's shoulders.

The sirens wailed crying like Mrs Hudson who called out for her lost children, "John! Sherlock!" she keened and then she wept.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock pushed open the door to the lab. The room was filled with glassware and equipment obscuring his view of the edges of the room. He walked around the tables and saw Sally Donovan sitting quietly in the corner.

Sally rose to her feet as Sherlock looked at her. She turned toward him as he approached slowly walking heel before toe. She smiled.

"It was you." Sherlock said, "You put that key into John's pocket when you took his coat. You fabricated the information in that box. Stole files from Lestrade's safe. You wanted me to think that Sherlock was Moriarty. You wanted me to hurt him."

"Yes," Sally said.

"Why?"

"Don't act like you don't know," Sally said, "You always knew. From the first time that we met, the first time that I ever laid eyes on you. I wanted you, Sherlock Holmes. I've always wanted you. Didn't I make myself clear when I gave you my address? When I told you when I would be in? When I kissed you? But you didn't show up, you let me down. You _always _let me down.

"But at least I had the consolation that no one else had you, that was until he came. I knew then that you wouldn't interested in anyone who wasn't a murderer or an army Doctor named John Watson."

"So you became a murderer?"

"I didn't have to. You did it for me. I tried to kill him before, when he was in the hospital, but I couldn't do it. He was the closest thing to you that I had left."

"What about Anderson?"

"He was convenient. You can't honestly believe that I would love that idiot? He's married for God sake. Where is he?"

"He's dead."

"Good," she said, "then there are no complications."

"No complications? Are you insane."

"They say love makes fools of us all. I called the bank. Told them to remove the hold on that Swiss Account. Four Hundred thousand dollars. That's how much we have to start our new life."

"Ours?"

"Well you can't stay here. What you've done will get you jail for life, or a psychiatric prison. I've made you a fake passport. You see, I used to be in the forgeries department. I've become quite good at faking official documents. It takes one to know one and all that. If we go now, we can get out before the net closes. Take the Chunnel Train to France and fly from there. I have it all arranged."

"You knew that this would happen?"

"I knew that it would happen sooner or later," she laughed. "I told John the first day we met that one day we'd be looking at a body, and you'd be the one that put it there. Well that day has come. I warned him to stay away from you, but he wouldn't listen. It's his own fault he died."

A look of disgust crossed Sherlock's face. "What is it you want? What is the price for your help in my escape?"

"It's simple," She said smiling, her hands clasped coyly behind her back, "Today's price is only a kiss. And make it a good one. We can discuss the rest of the payment later."

Sherlock walked toward Sally who looked up into his gray-green eyes. He slid his feet closer as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Their lips met. Then she sputtered, spitting blood into Sherlock's mouth as he stabbed through the diaphragm, and into her heart, the tip of the scalpel piercing her left lung. Sally fell back onto the hard floor with a clatter, gurgling as she choked on her own blood. Sherlock watched her die.

The door flew open and Sherlock turned to see Molly. She stopped in her tracks as she saw his face, a stream of blood flowing from his lips.

"Sherlock," She said, "the police are coming."

Sherlock took a few steps toward her, and then stopped. He looked down at his hand. It was grasping a bloody scalpel. He stared at it as if he only then realized that it was attached to his body. Molly rushed toward him grabbing his arm, and pulling the scalpel from his hand. She laid it down on the table.

"Now Sherlock," she said, "let's get out of here."

She pulled his arm, but Sherlock refused to move forward. Sherlock's fell in on himself sinking to the ground and dissolving into tears. "He's dead, Molly," Sherlock said the words coming out between choked sobs, "John is dead."

Molly stroked Sherlock's hair, "There, there Sherlock. It will be alright," she said.

The sobs were louder now, "Alright?" Sherlock gasped, "Nothing is alright. What am I going to do now? How can I live without him?"

Molly patted his head wrapping her arms around his shoulders and rocking as he lay his head on her lap, "There, there," she said, "Shhhh." She stroked and held Sherlock as his warm tears soaked into her trousers.

Suddenly there was the sound of footsteps. Molly and Sherlock climbed to their feet as the door opened. Lestrade stood in the doorway flanked by two policemen. All three of them had their guns raised.

"Step away from her Sherlock," Lestrade said.

Molly raised her hands, "No, no, he's not threatening me. Please put down your guns," but Sherlock looked up at them with red eyes full of despair. He stared straight at Lestrade for a long moment before pushing Molly forcibly to the ground and reaching out for the bloody scalpel.

Lestrade fired, and Sherlock fell backward in a slow arc, dropping the knife as the back of his skull bounced off of the floor's surface. He could see Molly's face as she bent over his. She was crying, calling out his name, but the sounds were becoming dimmer as his ears filled with blood. The room echoed and the edges of his vision started to fade. He saw the shocked face of Detective Inspector Lestrade who had not meant to kill him. He had always been a lousy shot.

Sherlock smiled, "I'm going to see John," he said, "Thank you, Lestrade, Molly. I'm happy."

Molly rose to her feet and covered her mouth. She turned and cried into the shoulder of DI Lestrade who was breathing heavily. Sherlock Holmes lay on the floor, his eyes staring up at nothing. The body of Sally Donovan lying a few yards away.

"And here's the end of Sherlock Holmes. He was the best damn detective that I ever knew. The best detective there ever was."

The door opened and a sergeant entered, "Inspector. John Watson survived. He's in stable condition."

Lestrade looked back at Sherlock's body, then he turned away. "Call in a team to document this. I need to get out of here." Lestrade put an arm around Molly and together they walked out of the lab and away from this scene of awful tragedy.

THE END


End file.
